Lorelei
by UnderworldPomegranate
Summary: Alternate universe, no Clarice. A new detective comes to the doctor for advice about a new killer, who may be closer than he thinks. THIS STORY ON HOLD
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: First of all, I don't own Dr. Lecter, Crawford, Chilton, etc. Second, this story is a little different from most of the fanfiction here. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Hannibal and Clarice, but there are only so many different ways to write it. Most of them have already been done. I'm trying something a little different. This story takes place between Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, so Clarice isn't even a trainee yet. She could turn up later; I haven't decided. However, the events of Silence are never going to take place. I know this is really weird, but the idea has been bouncing around in my head for a while. If you don't mind the lack of Starling, please read and respond.

* * *

Special Agent Sheridan Pasternak, of Quantico's Department of Behavioral Sciences, was always exactly fifteen minutes early for meetings. In spite of this, the room was already filling with people when he entered. Crawford had told everyone else that the meeting started at 7:30; he told Sheridan that it started at 7:45.

A large wooden table, with manila folders at each seat, dominated the room. Sheridan slid into his chair, watching everyone else stand around, talking and sipping cups of Starbucks.

"Have a seat, everyone," Crawford said, turning on the slide projector. Six skeletons appeared on the white wall at the end of the table. They were lined up, side by side, with their arms stretched above their heads as if they were about to dive. The one on the far left was nearly ash; evidence of burning was less and less severe down the line, with the far right skeleton only a bit scorched, with burnt pieces of flesh still clinging to it.

"All six of these bodies were found in the woods along I-70, near Baltimore. They were found by some Boy and Girl Scouts out picking up trash for a community service project; the kids are in therapy now, and will probably be fine." He changed the slide to show six x-rays of teeth.

"We checked the teeth; they're all in our missing persons database except one man. That one shows a lot of old injuries and some very unhealthy teeth; he was probably a street person. They all lived in or around the city, and they're all white except for one Latino, a college student. Four were men and two were women. All we can tell is that none of their bones were damaged; the rest is gone. We haven't found any fingerprints, but we're still looking." The first picture reappeared, six grinning skeletons.

"The cause of death could be the burning, but the way that they're laid out makes that unlikely. Unless the killer went through and rearranged them after burning them, they would have to be tied up. We found them in a neat little row, just as you see. If you look in your folders, you have pictures of each person before and after death, and their missing person file. No foul play was suspected in any of the cases until this—" he gestured to the picture—"was found, so the killer either didn't take them from their homes or is very good at breaking in undetected. It's probably the first; they all lived in apartments, except the hairstylist. Someone would have noticed a kidnapping."

Sheridan looked through the file. None of them looked very strong, but some of the men were no shrimps. They didn't seem to have anything in common; one man was an extra at the Baltimore Opera house, one was a college student, one a teacher at a different college, and the homeless man. The homeless man was the one who was almost ash, Sheridan noted.

The women were an equally mixed lot. One was a hairstylist, and the other a secretary. None of the victims had been above middle class, and they ranged in age from 20 (the college kid) to 58 (the hairstylist).

"The only common factor that we've seen so far," Crawford said, "is that they all lived alone, no spouse or kids. It's possible that they were chosen at random, by someone who didn't want the added difficulty of multiple people in the house, although since they probably weren't taken from their homes that's unlikely. We're still looking for a motive, of course, but we're running with the random theory for now. We have a serial killer on our hands, gentlemen."

He began to hand out jobs. Some were going to examine the bodies; others were going to look at any suspects from the missing persons cases. One unlucky man was told to try to find any records of the unidentified—and probably homeless—victim.

"Sheridan, you're coming with me to the victims' apartments. We're taking another look around."

* * *

Carlos Fonta, the opera extra, lived about two hours' drive from Quantico. The first hour and a half passed in increasingly tense silence, before Crawford gave in to the boredom and tried to make small talk.

"So, Sheridan, how's the girlfriend? Laura, was it?"

"Lauren. She's fine." Crawford waited for more information. None was forthcoming, so he tried again.

"What is it that she does?"

"She's a singer. A good one. The star of the opera house this Fonta guy worked at, actually." Crawford's eyes widened.

"Small world, isn't it?" Sheridan simply grunted. Another minute passed before Crawford spoke again.

"Is there good money in opera?"

"Yeah. Lots of work, but good money."

"That's good." Crawford decided that another conversation topic was in order. "So, do you have any ideas about the killer?"

Sheridan accepted the subject change with relief. "Well, I'm sure you noticed that some of the skeletons are more burnt than others. I was looking thorough the files, and the most burnt one besides the homeless man is the one who disappeared first, Fonta. They go in order—the one that wasn't too scorched was Katrina Mann, the secretary, who disappeared last. I think the killer must have put them there one at a time, and then burnt the new one with all of the old ones. There could even be some earlier ones that are completely gone, so I hope the team looks carefully inside that circle."

Work was good. Work was something he could talk about. He was positive that Lauren was with him because she enjoyed those true-crime novels; talking to him was like reading one. He couldn't do small-talk. She was the only girl who didn't start backing away when he vividly described crime scenes and shoot-outs. He loved her almost as much as he loved his job. Speaking of which—

"We're here," announced Crawford.

"Fonta disappeared nearly a year ago. He left with the rent paid for the entire year, so luckily his apartment hasn't been re-leased," said Crawford.

The building was dingy, grey, and rickety. Its sides had been lovingly adorned with spray-paint, showing numerous gang symbols and random messages. They walked in the creaky door cautiously; the building looked like it was going to fall on their heads at any moment.

"There's only money in opera if you're good," remarked Sheridan absently. Crawford didn't bother to reply; he knew Agent Pasternak would never hear him.

OUT OF SERVICE, announced the sign on the elevator door. Below that, someone had written, "For 2 yeers now. Hir a repar man cheep dumass"

The stairs were made of rusted metal. They didn't look like they would hold two people, and creaked ominously under their combined weight.

"If he was taken from here, I doubt anyone would have noticed," murmured Sheridan.

"But he wasn't, was he?"

"No," agreed Sheridan.

"No what?" asked Crawford. Sheridan ignored him. They reached the apartment, number 304, and unlocked the door.

It was a bachelor pad, certainly. Everything was exactly as Fonta had left it, mostly in a pile on the floor. The mattress was lumpy, the sheets were dirty, and there was year-old underwear hanging from the ceiling lamp. Incongruously, a small electric keyboard stood on a stand in the corner, presumably for Fonta to practice with.

"According to the people we interviewed, he like picking up society girls who would come to the opera. He convinced them to take him back to their place, obviously. When that didn't work, he went to prostitutes. The salary of an opera extra apparently doesn't cover that and the rent for a decent place," said Crawford.

"None of the neighbors saw anything suspicious?"

"If they did, they didn't tell us."

"We're wasting our time, then. It didn't happen here. Did he have a car?"

"No."

"The killer grabbed him off the street. Let's take a look at the next house, that college professor. Jacob Martin." Crawford stared.

"Come on, Crawford. If there was any evidence here, we would have found it before," Sheridan insisted impatiently. Crawford shrugged.

"Do you want to go to the house, or the vacation house?"

"What? Which was he taken from?" Crawford grimaced.

"We don't know. He lived in an apartment most of the year, but he went on a retreat to the vacation house once a year, whenever he felt like it. It's in his contract, apparently; he's allowed to disappear for two weeks whenever he feels like it. He wrote some book, or something, so they let him get away with anything." He shook his head. "When he disappeared, everyone assumed that he went there. We checked the house—there's no concrete evidence that he was there, but he easily could have been. Lots of nonperishables in the fridge."

"The rest of the time he lived in an apartment?"

"Yes."

"The vacation house, then. It's hard to kidnap someone from an apartment."

"All right, but we're stopping for lunch on the way. It's three hours from here." Sheridan looked at him blankly. Lunch?

"Not everyone lives on evidence alone, Pasternak."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Crawford, Dr. Lecter, Barney, and Chilton belong to Harris; Sheridan, Lauren, and L belong to me.

* * *

Lunch was a terse event. Sheridan ate his greasy hamburger quickly and mechanically; it was gone in under a minute. Food, for him, was a chore rather than a pleasure. He went over the few facts of the case in his head, over and over and over.

Crawford dug into his salad with considerably less gusto; Bella had put him on a diet. He wasn't sure that he could stand another hour and a half in the car with Agent Pasternak. It was an uncomfortable cycle of long, awkward silences and short, forced conversations. _How was the man able to keep a girlfriend?_ He pondered this for a while, then decided that perhaps he didn't want to know.

"I need to call Lauren," announced Pasternak suddenly. Crawford was used to his apparent tendency to read minds. It was whispered at the office that he was a psychic, and that his brief stay in a mental hospital many years previously had been due to his inability to cope with all that he heard. Sometimes, Crawford almost believed it.

"If you have some kind of date planned tonight, I can get someone else to come with me," offered Crawford. "We have people staking out the killer's dump spot; right now it looks like that's our best bet. We already went over the houses when they were just missing. There's nothing there."

"No, it's nothing special," Sheridan replied. "She's performing tonight, but I've already seen the show. She won't mind."

"Well, I'm about ready to go," said Crawford, eyeing the rest of his salad with distaste. "Why don't you just call her from the car?" He would be interested to learn more about this operatic Lauren character.

* * *

Lauren Doyle, star soprano for Baltimore's Lyric Opera House, was deeply engrossed in a true-crime novel when the phone rang.

She was not someone who met society's requirements for beauty; she never had the patience to straighten her frizzy brown hair, her hips and behind were rather large, and glasses framed her unremarkably brown eyes. None of the city's opera aficionados would have recognized her as the woman whose performance as Marguerite in_ Faust_ had moved many the previous Saturday.

She picked up the telephone with considerable annoyance. Her book was just getting to the good part, and she didn't appreciate interruptions.

"Hello?" she snarled.

"Lauren? Is this a bad time?" asked Sheridan warily.

"Oh, Sheridan! No, no, sorry! I was just reading; you know how I get when I'm in the middle of a book. What's happening?"

"I'm on a case. It looks like I'm going to miss your performance tonight. Do you mind?"

"Hey, you have to keep the streets safe and all that. Catch a few bad guys for me," she replied. He could hear the disappointment in her voice, though.

"I know _Faust_ is your favorite, and I really loved it Saturday, but maybe we can go out to dinner or something instead, some other day." That was the right thing to say, right? Oh, he was so bad at this relationship stuff…

"Oh, so this case won't take too long, then?" she asked. "What are you investigating?"

"I'll tell you when we catch him. It shouldn't take too long, though. I promise that I'll at least be there on Sunday, ok?"

"All right, that's fine. I'll give your ticket to Cindy; she said she wanted to see it. Good luck."

"You, too. Knock 'em dead."

"I'll try," she laughed. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

She returned to her novel, anxious to reach the part where Dr. Lecter stabs Will Graham.

* * *

Crawford liked to know as much as he could about those who worked for him. It was their job to catch the criminals; it was his job to make sure that they did. For that to happen, they had to get to know the criminals; he had to get to know them.

Sometimes he thought that they had the easy job.

Pasternak had only been a part of Behavioral Sciences for a year. So far, he had proved himself amazingly talented. He was able to reconstruct a crime scene with only a little bit of evidence, and he was a brilliant profiler.

The man himself, though, was an enigma. His one interest seemed to be his work. Sometimes he drank, but he never seemed to get drunk; he didn't smoke. No one had ever heard him tell a joke, or laugh at one. He barely even seemed to smile. His pale green eyes always seemed expressionless.

How did he keep a girlfriend? Crawford remembered the day, about seven months ago, when Pasternak came to work with a dazed expression on his face. Another profiler had asked what happened.

"I have a girlfriend," he said, in a perplexed tone of voice. Lauren seemed to be the only thing, other than work, that was at all important to him.

Why had he been in that mental hospital? Crawford had never asked; the stay was on his record, but it also said that he was completely cured. He wasn't even on any medication.

Crawford's musings were interrupted by the car's arrival at Jacob Martin's vacation house.

It was a nice house; nothing too big, but not cramped, either. There were no signs that it had been recently occupied, but the inside wasn't covered in dust, either. It seemed to be the exact opposite of Fonta's hideous apartment building; the walls were all done in pastels, and there were dreamy, Impressionistic pictures of seashores and boats on the walls.

The bed was badly made, and the fridge held only a few water bottles. There was a large assortment of food in the pantry, and the trash was reeking and half full.

"He was here."

"Yes, he was," agreed Sheridan.

"What?" asked Crawford.

"Sorry. He definitely came to this house before he died. Look at the expiration dates on the cereal; he bought it the last time that he was here. It looks like he was only here for about a day, though, based on the trash. The killer could have been watching this house, waiting for him to come back."

"Yes, that's what happened."

"The killer watched this house for a while. I'm not sure if he knew that Martin was allowed to take off at any time; it would have been a waste of time to watch the house, in that case, unless he knew something we don't. He watched the house. When Martin came, he waited for nightfall, and rang the doorbell. No signs of a struggle, so he either conked Martin on the head or had some chemical ready. Were there any prints on the doorbell?"

"There were some that could have come from leather gloves, probably. Gardening gloves, or something," replied Crawford.

"Clever. It doesn't look as suspicious as rubber gloves, and we don't get fingerprints." Pasternak wandered around the house.

"Do you think the killer knew him?" asked Crawford.

"Who would know this guy and Fonta? It could have been someone college-educated who likes opera. Maybe Fonta didn't perform up to their standard," suggested Pasternak.

Crawford wondered if that made him worry about Lauren, but Pasternak's face gave nothing away.

Wednesday ended with another long, long drive. Thursday went much the same way; the homes of the hairstylist and the college student were examined. On Friday, they went to Katrina Mann's house. Once again, there was nothing. It was doubtful that the killer ever entered any of the houses.

Much to Lauren's joy, Sheridan was able to attend her Friday show. They went back to his apartment afterwards for some vigorous interpersonal activity.

Crawford's whole team was now on stakeout duty, in shifts. It seemed like their best chance for catching the killer. Local police helped too, of course, but one or two federal agents had to be on each shift.

Sheridan hated stakeout. Everyone tried to make small-talk with him. He couldn't do small-talk. When he was describing a case, he would go on for hours, but a few minutes of polite, empty words were completely beyond him.

The killer continued to not make an appearance. The chilly October air put everyone in a very bad mood, especially at night. Two of the victims had disappeared in September, two in August, and two in July. Had the killer given up after that? Was he leaving his victims in a different spot? If that was the case, they wouldn't catch him until he made some sort of mistake.

The final performance of Faust, on Sunday, was a hit. Lauren was an amazing Marguerite; Sheridan understood why Faust would sell his soul after seeing a vision of her. He still questioned why she was with him.

Monday was pleasantly uneventful. Lauren stayed at Sheridan's house until he had to leave for his evening shift. The stake-out was equally uneventful, but far less pleasant.

In the very, very early hours of Tuesday, the men at the stake-out heard rustling near the dump site. After several dozen false alarms caused by squirrels and raccoons, they decided not to investigate.

In the morning, they found another body.

* * *

"Agent Pasternak, let me see if I've got this straight. You were assigned to stake out a killer's drop site. Yes?" Crawford was Not Happy.

"Yes."

"While you were on duty, the killer came to the site, noticed the stakeout, _dropped a body, and got away_. Am I getting everything?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't investigate the noises you heard because you _thought it was a raccoon_."

"Crawford, no one regrets that fuck-up more than I do," said Sheridan.

"Actually, Agent Pasternak, I think that whoever the killer gets next will regret it a good deal more than you do. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir."

Crawford gave him a long, hard look. "Okay. You're still on the case, let's try to salvage something from this. The killer was very careful—he used rubber gloves on the body, even though he probably planned to burn it like the others. No prints. However, we can see the cause of death." He passed Sheridan a file. There were pictures of the corpse; it was a slightly short, stocky man around twenty. His hair was cropped short, naturally brown but with blonde tips. Sheridan noticed all of this later; first he saw the slash across the throat, like a gaping red mouth. The wrists were cut as well, in long gashes running up the arms. Any one of those wounds would probably have been fatal; why would the killer go to all that trouble? Caution? Entertainment? The corpse's skin was paper-white.

"We haven't identified the corpse yet," said Crawford. "Labs say that the neck wound was the fatal one; we're not sure what the others were for. No signs of abuse pre-death. He was killed yesterday evening."

"Weapon?"

"Looks like some sort of cooking knife. Not very distinctive. Oh, and the killer left this." He pointed to another picture in the folder.

It was a note.

**Dear FBI people,**

**So, you've found my spot. Well, I suppose I'll miss it, but it was just for practice. Now the real fun begins.**

**I have no illusions about the fact that you'll catch me eventually, if I continue to kill. And I have no intention of stopping. Until then, however, I plan to enjoy myself as much as possible. So I'll drop you a note or two.**

**I'm not going to give you any clues, though. If you can get anything out of this letter, then you're smarter than I am, and you deserve to win. It's a battle of wits, to the death. Many deaths, if I'm lucky. Just mine, if you are.**

**I know that you'll have to call me something, and I'd prefer that it not be demeaning. I could simply trust you to come up with something suitable, but I saw what happened to the Great Red Dragon. "The Tooth Fairy"—please!**

**So, until we meet again, I remain,**

_**L**_

**PS—**

**Would you please tell Doctor Lecter that I did as I said I would? He will know what you mean.**

"What do you think?" asked Crawford.

"I think that someone needs to go see Lecter," replied Sheridan. _Please, not me not me not me…_

"That's what I think, too," sighed Crawford. "Head over there tomorrow."

* * *

Sheridan approached the drab building with a feeling of dread stronger than any he had ever felt before. He stood still and breathed deeply for a while, then walked in, appearing to be calm as an iceberg.

Chilton, intimidated by this silent FBI agent, curtailed his normal impulse to chatter and had an orderly lead Sheridan to the dungeon. His toadying manner barely even registered on Sheridan's mind; he was too consumed by terror to notice any annoyance. Barney's friendliness was likewise ignored, or at least soon forgotten. The screams and babblings of the inmates made no impression. Finally, he arrived at the last cell.

"Hello, Sheridan. I haven't seen you for a while."


	3. Chapter 3

"Dr. Lecter, I'm here as a representative of the FBI." No one on earth, other than the man standing in the cell in front of Sheridan, could have noticed that his voice shook.

"Yes, you had recently graduated from Quantico at the time of my incarceration, correct?"

"I'm in behavioral sciences now," he replied with a flash of pride.

"Have you spoken to Will Graham? He never responds to my Christmas cards. I can't imagine why." His smile was predatory, serpentine.

"I'm under orders not to discuss Graham with you. We need your help with—"

"Well then, let's discuss you. Just like old times, although I'm afraid that I don't have a couch for you."

"Doctor, I really need you to look at—"

"If you would prefer, we could discuss _Phil_ instead. Is he helping you with your job?"

"Yes," Sheridan said, giving up. "Yeah, he's a big help. Sometimes I forget, and talk to him when there are other people around, but he has really great instincts."

"Did he accompany you today?"

"Yeah…he's right there," Sheridan said, with a gesture to his left.

"Hello, Phil."

"Hello, Dr. Lecter," said a voice that only Sheridan could hear.

"He says hi. Now can we please get on with this? We need your help," said Sheridan.

"Well, if the FBI needs my help, who am I to refuse?"

"Someone killed seven people," Sheridan said, ignoring the obvious sarcasm. "Six were dragged into the woods and burnt; the seventh was taken to the same spot, but we were staking it out. The killer got away, but he didn't get the chance to burn the body." He put a folder into Lecter's food tray. "Here's the case file. We came to you because the killer left us a letter; it's the last page. That's a photocopy, of course; the original is being analyzed."

Dr. Lecter sat on his bed, flipping through the pages. "This is the entire case file, correct? Nothing left out?"

"Nothing."

"Hmmm." He took his time, leaving Sheridan to fidget outside the cell, before getting to the letter. When he read the postscript, his eyebrows shot up.

"Well! I do have some information for you."

"Really! What is it?" asked Sheridan excitedly.

"He isn't going to tell you for free, you know," remarked Phil. Sheridan's shoulders drooped; Phil was usually right.

"Phil says that the information is going to cost me."

"Of course it will. It's very good information," said the doctor, who seemed to be smiling at some private joke.

"All right, then, what do you want?" Sheridan sighed.

"I want the killer in the cell next to mine."

"We may not catch him alive, and he may not get off on an insanity plea," warned Sheridan.

"I have confidence in you, and this country's legal system. I'll even lend the killer my lawyer."

"Well, then, I guess that's easy enough. As long as you know that there are no guarantees."

"Of course. But since there are no guarantees, I have an additional demand."

"Yes?" There was a hard ball of fear in the pit of his stomach.

"I want to restart your therapy sessions. It would be good for you, and for Phil," he said, with a smile that looked friendly at first glance.

"All right," Sheridan sighed.

"Excellent! I'll see you next Tuesday, then. Be sure to bring signed documents saying that the killer will be placed in the cell next to mine if caught alive and found insane."

"All right. Goodbye, then, doctor," Sheridan said, turning to leave.

"Wait! What about that information?" shouted Phil. "He has to give us something! He could just be bluffing!"

Sheridan sighed, turning back to Dr. Lecter.

"Yes? Is there something else?" Lecter asked.

"We need some information. How do we know you aren't bluffing?" asked Sheridan.

"A good point. I will trade you one salient fact about the killer for one about you, then," said Dr. Lecter.

"Um, all right…I work for Jack Crawford."

"Obvious, and also dull. For that, I will tell you that the killer wears gloves."

"Okay, I bought a new apartment."

"Something that I didn't know, but meaningless and trivial. The killer owns a black shirt."

"Fine…I have a girlfriend," he sighed, giving in.

"Oh? Your first since high school, correct? What is her name?"

"Yes, my first since tenth grade. Her name is Lauren Doyle. She's an opera singer."

Maroon sparks whirled in Lecter's eyes. It made Sheridan rather nervous. He looked as if, despite the fact that he was trapped in a cell, the entire world was his private joke.

"Mmmmm. For that, I will tell you what the 'L' stands for, in the letter."

"What?"

"It stands for Lorelei." He would not say another word.

* * *

Sheridan walked back to his car, shaken. Dr. Lecter hadn't made fun of him; he never did. Perhaps making fun of a socially inept schizophrenic would be too easy for him. Still, talking to him was a terrifying experience, because he _knew_. He was the only other person in the world who knew about Phil.

He sat down, but did not put the keys in the ignition. Memories swirled around his head.

"_Dan, this 'Phil' thing has gone on long enough. You're sixteen years old; that's about ten years too old for an imaginary friend."_

"_But, dad! He's not imaginary! Don't you see him? He's standing right there…"_

"_Dan, dear, your father is right. We're getting worried about you. Now, either stop playing this game, or…or we'll decide that it isn't a game, and send you to that psychologist."_

"_But he's real! Don't you see him? Don't you?"_

His parents, of course, had been right.

"_Mr. and Mrs. Pasternak, I'm afraid that your son is schizophrenic."_

"_Oh…oh!"_

"_Don't cry, dear. Dr. Mansert, is there anything you can do?"_

"_Well, I know of a very good center for the treatment of this sort of thing. I own it, as a matter of fact. You should send him there…for his own good, of course. It would be quite a tragedy if 'Phil' convinced him to swallow a bottle of aspirin one of these days."_

"_Oh…oh!"_

"_Darling, please don't cry. We knew this was coming. Doctor, we want whatever is best for our son. If this place of yours will do the trick, then we're all for it."_

He was sent to Stonybrook Farm, a dingy, grey building of concrete, where he continued his sessions with Dr. Mansert, and completed his Junior year of high school with the help of a tutor. Not all of the patients got to work with the owner of the facility, but his parents were paying top dollar. A year later, he was released, pronounced cured, although he still needed to visit Dr. Mansert every week.

There was only one problem: he couldn't function any more.

"_Doctor, I know that you said never to listen to Phil because he doesn't exist, but don't you think that maybe I could sometimes?"_

"_Why would you want to?"_

"_Well, I'm in my senior year right now, and I'm getting really bad grades. He always tells me what answers to write on tests, but I don't listen to him. I try to figure it out myself."_

"_That's good! What's the problem?"_

"_I fail the tests. When we go over the answers afterwards, I think they're the same as the ones he says."_

"_You _think_ that, but are you sure?"_

"_Well…no, but…"_

"_But nothing. You have made a tremendous improvement. Continue to completely ignore him."_

"_All right…"_

Then, Dr. Mansert had a heart attack. Sheridan began going to sessions with a well-known psychiatrist named Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

"_So, back when you listened to Phil, you found him helpful?"_

"_Yes! He never told me to jump under a car, or do anything that Dr. Mansert said he would. He's my friend."_

"_I am interested by what you said about tests. Can you expand on it?"_

"_Well, whenever I was taking a test, Phil would whisper the answer to me. The teacher never caught us, either…I guess that's because he's not real. Anyway, when I looked at a problem, Phil would say something to me first. Then, I would think about it, check it, and usually go with it. It was usually right."_

"_Mmmm. Phil seems to be a personification of what is commonly referred to as 'gut feelings.'"_

"_What does that mean?"_

"_It means that you should feel free to listen to him, as long as you keep in mind that he isn't real. If he tells you to do anything that could be dangerous, don't do it. Talk to me about it at our next session. Other than that, I don't see any reason not to listen to him."_

"_Wow, that's great! Did you hear that, Phil?"_

"_I'll see you next week, Sheridan. Goodbye."_

Without Phil, he would never have graduated from college and gotten into Quantico. Dr. Lecter had done him a huge service. Why did he have to be a cannibal? What if he decided to tell the world that Agent Pasternak of the FBI was a schizo? Sheridan's parents were dead, and he had never told anyone else. What if Lauren found out somehow? Someone who didn't mind eating people wouldn't mind publicizing a poor FBI agent's insanity.

* * *

"All right, people, let's take a look at this note. What do we know?" They were back in the meeting room, with a picture of the note on the slide projector.

"Well, it's obviously typed. The killer couldn't have written it on-site; this was planned. He expected to be found; he says that in the note, too."

"Okay, so our perp's a realist. Anything else? Chem people, did you find anything?"

"Whoever did this mixed blood in with their ink cartridge. It belongs to the first victim, the John Doe. Lots of blood, too—you can see a weird brown tint if you look closely."

"No prints?"

"Only latex gloves. The killer's very careful."

"Does anyone else think that the killer is trying to be, I don't know, _elegant_, but can't quite do it?" asked Sheridan.

"Why do you say that?" asked Crawford.

"Well, there's a lot of melodrama… 'a battle of wits, to the death.' There are big words, but the heading is 'dear FBI people.' Not exactly refined."

"Makes sense," commented another profiler. "The killer wants to be powerful, smart. He feels powerful by killing, and tries to impress us, make us think he's smart. Why else would he leave the note in the first place?"

"To get his message to Lecter, maybe," commented Crawford. "What did you find out, Sheridan?"

"I think that the killer met Lecter at some point. He mentioned that the killer owned a black shirt…he wouldn't have known that just from a correspondence, probably. And he said that the 'L' stands for 'Lorelei.' I looked it up…" He shuffled through some papers. "It says here...'According to German legend, there was once a beautiful young maiden, named Lorelei, who threw herself headlong into the river in despair over a faithless lover. Upon her death she was transformed into a siren and could from that time on be heard singing on a rock along the Rhine River, near St. Goar. Her hypnotic music lured sailors to their death. The legend is based on an echoing rock with that name near Sankt Goarshausen, Germany.'"

"'A beautiful young maiden'…is our perp a woman? Any opinions?" asked Crawford.

"I have nothing from Lecter," replied Sheridan. "He never used any pronouns when he talked about the killer." Phil had pointed this out to him earlier.

"All but two of the victims have been men. If there is some sort of 'faithless lover' in the killer's past, maybe this is a form of revenge," someone suggested.

"That sounds plausible. All right, let's split into groups. You guys are in charge of making a 'Lorelei' profile. Assume that everything Lecter said is true, that the perp is probably a woman, and that this is some sort of revenge thing. You over there, disregard the Lecter information, it could all be lies. Just use what we know is true. Everyone, refer to the killer as 'L.' We don't want 'Lorelei' in the papers,. All right, everyone, get to work!"

Sheridan was on the "Lorelei" profile team.

* * *

A phone call:

"Hello?"

"Lauren? I'm going to be busy tonight. We've got a big case."

"Oh…ok. Can you tell me what it's about?"

"Well, I can tell you what'll be in the papers…we've got a multiple killer going by the name of 'L'."

"…"

"Lauren? Are you still there?"

"Yes…sorry, just dropped something. Do you have anything good yet? Prints and stuff?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Awww…please? You know I never tell anyone."

"Well…ok, I guess. We don't have any prints yet, the killer's really careful. No blood type or anything, either. And we didn't suspect any foul play with the victims, they were just missing persons. Then we found the bodies."

"Wow. Sounds like it could be tough. Well, I'll stay home and do some cleaning tonight, I guess. No harm done."

"I'm glad you understand. And you won't tell anyone about the fingerprints, right?"

"Of course not."

"Ok, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye."


End file.
